


Errand for the Witch of the Wilds

by Vevici



Series: On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/M, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 22:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: Two unexpected visitors lead to Morrigan's unwanted journey to save the world. Or did Flemeth unknowingly hand Morrigan a very powerful weapon?





	Errand for the Witch of the Wilds

Visitors.

                Morrigan would have cringed at the idea, made herself scarce from the hut until she’d forgotten what it was that Flemeth did to her so-called guests. Yet these recent guests were not one of Flemeth’s puppets. Or at the very least, they were of a more valuable kind—important pieces of a puzzle that only the old witch could see.  That was the only reason Morrigan could accept as to why her mother had saved two young wardens among veterans from the overwhelming darkspawn horde. Perhaps it was as Flemeth had said: she could not risk flying further than the Tower of Ishal. Perhaps she believed Morrigan didn’t need to know and thus kept her reasons secret. Whichever the case might be it did not excuse Morrigan from tending to the injured pair. At least one of them had already woken and was now capable of cleaning himself. But the other one, the Dalish woman who had introduced herself as Mahariel only three days ago, still lay unresponsive on Morrigan’s bed.

                The sting of the poultice against the crossbow wound on Mahariel’s shoulder should have snapped her awake, yet she had merely mumbled something in her people’s language. Clucking her tongue, Morrigan set a washbasin onto the table, hung a cloth on its rim, and placed a hand on the elf’s forehead. She sent a wave of her mana into Mahariel’s mind; the magic didn’t sink deep. It halted suddenly, as if it met a wall. Just as it had yesterday. Morrigan raised an eyebrow. From the brief encounter Morrigan had with Mahariel’s party, she had deduced that the elf was not a mage. Then what blocked her mind from magic? Was it her elvhen blood?

                Clucking her tongue again, Morrigan sat on the edge of her bed and began undoing the bandages around the Mahariel’s shoulder, chest, and torso. “If you would just allow my magic into your mind, I could wrench you from your nightmares and we’d both be spared from such unnecessary tasks.”

                As she began to wipe away the remnants of the poultice, a hum tickled the edge of her hearing. Magic. Rather, a magical item. Her eyes fell to the wooden beads and sliver chain around a slender neck. Morrigan hooked a finger under the necklaces and coaxed the pendants out from under Mahariel’s uninjured shoulder. An oval wooden pendant hung from the beaded chain while a red tear-shaped glass hung from the silver. Closing her fingers over both amulets, Morrigan released a searching spell. A shock ran through her hand and the amulets fell against their owner’s chest.

                "A protection spell,” Morrigan said, flexing her fingers. “Very clever.”

                When the time came to apply a new layer of poultice, Mahariel began wincing and groaning. Morrigan took it as a good sign and applied more of the thick paste on the wounds. As she did, her eyes raised to the pale scar just above where the crossbow bolt had pierced her right shoulder. It shone under the morning light streaming from the window, the furrowed skin drew shadows that curled around her arm. Later, as Morrigan wrapped the new bandages, her eyes were once again caught by the burn mark between Mahariel’s breasts. The pink skin told her it was healed with magic, but not immediately. The three lines, like tracks of water on a pane, trailed down her abdomen. Morrigan paused in her bandaging, took the wooden pendant in her hand, and aligned it with the scar. It was a perfect match except for the drip marks.

                “I wonder…” She didn’t finish the thought. Once the warden was up, she and her companion would march back into Ferelden, never to look back again.

 

Mahariel woke up that afternoon, slow and groggy. Morrigan shut her book and stood over her, at the end of the bed, arms crossed as she waited for the questions to come. The Dalish had been rather inquisitive when they had first met; and polite. Unlike the humans she had travelled with—a suspicious lot, easily shaken by stories of magic and death.

                A groan from the bed made Morrigan lean over, placing herself in line of Mahariel’s sight. Dry lips parted, followed by the rasp of her name.

                “Huh,” Morrigan said before she could hold her surprise. “You remember my name.”

                Turning on her side, Mahariel cracked an eye open. “Why would I not?” She pushed herself to sit, swaying. “How long? Unconscious?”

                And there was the first question, barely comprehensible. “Two days. You were injured, do you not remember?”

                A trembling hand touched the bruises on her hip, then the bandages around her torso, and lastly, the one around her shoulder. Mahariel frowned, looking around the room. “How did I get here? Where’s Alistair?”

                “Mother decided it wise to turn into a giant bird and pluck you from the burning ruins of Ostagar. As for Alistair—your friend, I assume—he suffered more bolts but less severe wounds. He has his silverite armor to thank for that, though he stubbornly says little and prefers to stare blankly at the lake.”

                Mahariel moved as if to stand up, only to sink back on the sheets. A hand flew to the blooming red spot on her shoulder and remained there for a few heartbeats. “My clothes and armor? My weapons?”

                Morrigan pointed a long finger at the chest across the small room. “I hope you have enough strength to dress yourself. When you are ready, mother wishes to speak with you. I also suggest you ask her to look at that wound again.”

                Mahariel looked at her then, eyes now clear of sleep. “Thank you, Morrigan.”

                A pause. Then a shrug. Morrigan waved off the sentiment with a hand. “Mother did most of the healing. But, you are welcome, I suppose.”

                She turned on her heel and left Mahariel to tend to herself.

 

Voices drifted all the way to the back of the hut, where a fire sent a plume of smoke higher than the thatched roof. Although that did not mean much, considering that the ceiling was only three feet above Morrigan’s head.

                She listened to the talk about the death of the king and his general’s betrayal, the wardens and their treaties, the slaughter of their order at Ostagar. It was the human’s voice that she heard most clearly, deep and resonating as it was. That, and her mother’s cackle. Rolling her eyes, Morrigan shut the lid of the boiling pot and killed the fire with a clench of her fist.

                “And the other wardens?” Mahariel was saying as Morrigan reached the front of the hut.

                “Duncan said the Orlesian wardens had been summoned by Cailan. But I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won’t arrive in time,” Alistair replied.

                Mahariel cocked her head, looking up at her friend. “Alistair, do you still have the treaties?”

                “The—Maker!” Alistair ran to the firepit, falling on his knees as he grabbed his belt under a bedroll. When he stood again, facing Flemeth, he held a folded document in his hand. “Duncan told me to hold on to it before…This is it. The Grey Wardens can demand help from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places. They’re _obligated_ to help us during a Blight.”

                Morrigan raised an eyebrow at that. The very document that could unite Ferelden under a single threat was somehow saved from thieves and time by Flemeth…Did her mother foresee this outcome? Had she been waiting for this very day to come? If so, had Morrigan been, once again, an unwitting pawn to Flemeth’s schemes by bringing four wanderers in search of secret documents to their home three days ago?

                Another cackle broke her thoughts, though it did deepen the frown on her face. “I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else; this sounds like an army to me.”

                “Can we do this? Go to Arl Eamon and build an army?” Alistair asked, as if he was not the one who suggested the idea first.

                Flemeth uncrossed her arms, standing taller. When she spoke, the mirth was gone from her voice. “So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?”

                “Sure,” Alistair drawled. “Raise an army, stop Loghain from tearing Ferelden into two, kill the archdemon. Why not?”

                Mahariel chuckled. It made her look even younger. “I’m supposed to be dead twice now—”

                “Three,” Alistair interrupted. “Remember that bit with the blood and the choking?”

                “Hm. Thrice. Perhaps I can survive a fourth time.” She turned to Flemeth. “Thank you for your help, Flemeth.”

                “No, no. Thank you. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

                And here Morrigan thought her scowl could go no deeper. She was certain then, that her mother had indeed planned for this day. Whatever her schemes, the sooner the wardens left, the better.

                Morrigan chose to approach them then, arranging her face in a pleasant mask. “The stew is bubbling, mother dear. Shall I arrange the table for two or—”

                “For one,” said Flemeth. “The wardens will be leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them.”

                “Such a shame—What?” She rounded on her mother, whose face was set in grim lines and sharp shadows. Was this one of her tricks?

                “You heard me, girl. Last time I looked you had ears.”

                As the old witch laughed, Morrigan eyed the two wardens. Alistair’s eyebrows were scrunched as though he was about to hurl, while Mahariel’s face was carefully blank. Though she studied Flemeth from the corner of her eyes. Then she turned her gaze to Morrigan.

                “Thank you,” the Dalish said, seemingly sincere. “But if Morrigan doesn’t wish to join us—”

                “Her magic will be useful,” Flemeth said, as though Morrigan could not speak for herself. “Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde.”

                Alistair bent down to whisper something to Mahariel, who kept her eyes on Morrigan, almost questioningly. Apparently, it was only she who cared what Morrigan thought of the situation. “Have I no say in this?”

                “You’ve been itching to get out the Wilds for years,” Flemeth said, matter-of-factly. “This is your chance. As for you Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

                Morrigan scoffed. This was no kind act on Flemeth’s part; it was simply part of her plan. She had been curious to see what lay beyond the forest ever since she was ten, but why send her away now? During a Blight and a brewing civil war? Morrigan glared at her mother, though the latter pretended not to notice.

                Mahariel sighed, and Morrigan turned her glare at the elf. “Is this what you want?” Her eyes were on Flemeth, but Morrigan felt the question aimed at her.

                “This is not how I wanted this,” Morrigan said, biting the words. “Mother, I’m not even ready.” There were spells to perfect, lessons to finish, few valuables to pack.

                But the Witch of the Wilds had made her decision. “You must be. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will fail—” The wardens raised an eyebrow at each other “—and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

                Morrigan scanned the two people who could supposedly unite an entire kingdom. A young warrior who does not know what to do with himself when left alone and a young Dalish who possibly knew nothing outside the forests which her people roam. And she, Morrigan, who—despite all the magical training her mother had instilled in her—had not travelled far from the borders of the Wilds, was supposed to guide them? Morrigan crossed her arms, eyeing her mother. What did she want from the two Wardens? Why send her to watch them?

                Frowning, Morrigan sighed. “I understand.”

                Flemeth turned her attention back to the wardens. Had she also foreseen that Morrigan would concede?

                “You Wardens,” she said, voice ever grimmer. “Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed.”

                Morrigan wished she could believe her mother’s words as Mahariel seemed to. “I understand.”

                And just like that, the discussion ended. Morrigan excused herself to ready for travel.

               

                With a pack filled with spell books and a handful of clothes on her back, her staff on hand, Morrigan presented herself to her new companions with a neutral mask. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens,” she said, mimicking the words of the magician in the very first book she had read. “I suggest we head to a village north of the Wilds; ‘tis not far, and you’ll find replacements for what you lost in Ostagar. Or if you prefer—” she spat her next words—"I shall simply be your silent guide.” As her mother no doubt intended.

                Mahariel shrugged, tightening the straps of her own pack. “You have knowledge about things I do not. I’d appreciate your thoughts.”

                Alistair hummed, eyes narrowing. “I have a feeling you’ll regret that.”

                Morrigan rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, how you wound me.”

                She pushed past the fool and angled north. Mud squelched under two pairs of feet as the wardens followed her, then, as they got around the lake, her mother’s voice called.

                “Do try to have fun, dear.”

                Yes, because that was possible to do on a journey she did not volunteer to undertake, accompanied by a superstitious fool who distrusts magic, and an inexperienced elf whose eyes seem to dig for secrets. All that while avoiding the darkspawn that threaten the whole continent.

                The only good thing to come out from all this, was that Morrigan was physically away from her mother. Flemeth could scheme and manipulate all she wanted, but for now, Morrigan was free. And she would be a fool not to use the slack on her leash to set her own plan: to make her freedom permanent.


End file.
